The Merry Misogynist dsp-6

by Colin Cotterill

  "Go to the morgue. You'll be safe there. It's a shame you've alienated the people who could help you. A word from Judge Haeng and all this would go away. Won't you consider talking to him?"

  "I'd sooner eat my own foot."

  "I thought you might say that. But don't rule it out. Think about it, for me."

  He looked at her erotic outline against the window and decided there was very little he wouldn't do for her.

  There wasn't a great deal to do in a morgue at six thirty in the morning. Siri sat at his desk and tidied the files and pens that lived there. He decided to focus his mind on the conundrum of why a beautiful young woman had such gnarled feet and calluses on her hands. He returned to the freezer and slid out the tray, then talked through what he was seeing as if he were Dtui itemizing and explaining.

  "No sun damage," he said. "So…never outside or only when covered in some way. Covered from head to foot, or to ankle. Why would anyone go to so much trouble to stay out of the sun? And then, having gone to the trouble, leave their feet exposed? Madness." And these weren't feet baked from the sun and hardened by walking. They were soft. The only feet he could think of with a similar consistency were…

  There was a sound from the office. Too early for Dtui, and he would have heard her footfalls, but Mr Geung might have sneaked in to sweep and dust. That was his early-morning hobby. He took pride in the cleanliness of the morgue. Who could say what time he normally left his cramped dormitory for the comfort of a place he loved?

  "Morning!" Siri called. But there was no answer.

  He walked through the shadowy vestibule and into the curtained office. There was nobody there. His missing earlobe tingled. The amulet at his neck felt warm against his skin. He knew there was a presence here. His first hope was that the corpse in the cutting room was about to confide in him at last. He headed back there. Halfway across the vestibule, a chill ran up his spine. A cold damp feeling caressed his skin, and he stopped midstride. There was a smell like wet earth in the air, a scent that seemed to take hold and squeeze him tightly. He knew at once it had nothing to do with the dead girl.

  He heard a rustle behind him in the empty office and turned his head in time to see a shadow cross beyond the door. He stepped back into the doorway, and there on the floor at the centre of the round rug lay Saloop, drooling. It was a difficult moment. Siri had an affection for his dog, and his instinct was to lean down and pat him, tickle his ears. The animal used to like that. Surely a spirit dog would appreciate a little attention. But Saloop hadn't come for petting. He stood and barked, although the sound was delayed for two seconds due to the difference in dimensions. He turned in circles as if he wanted his old master to follow him, even though there was nowhere to go.

  Siri stepped past the door and saw immediately what Saloop was making all the fuss about. The doctor had considered himself unshockable. He'd seen the spirits of dead soldiers in legions. The ghost of a woman he believed was his own mother followed him around like an albatross. He'd held consultations with a monk at Hay Sok Temple who was clearly not of this world, but the figure sitting at his desk was enough to put the willies up even the most hardened shaman.

  She was unpleasantly overweight, ugly as a lopsided toad, and unmistakably naked. Her skin, if it could be called skin, was a squirming mass of live worms. They crawled in and out of her eye sockets and her mouth and nose. Siri edged farther into the room and could see that what he had thought at first was a beer belly was probably an eight-month term of pregnancy. Her stomach glistened with sweat. He was nauseated by the sight of her but knew he had to observe. He knew the image wouldn't last long. He waited for a word, a sign, but he could only smell the moist earth and feel the shudder of his amulet.

  "Please," he said. "I'm not very good at this. Couldn't you…?"

  But, as he'd feared, his words seemed to blow away the ugly woman and the dog like smoke. And all that remained was a feeling of doom.

  When Dtui and Geung arrived together at eight, they found Dr Siri sitting at his desk staring at his knuckles.

  "Goo…good morning, Comrade Doctor," said Geung.

  "Anybody else and I'd say you looked like you'd seen a ghost," said Dtui. "But in your case…"

  "Just a little tired is all." Siri smiled. "I'm only being haunted by the Department of Housing. I could use a nap. They won't leave me alone."

  "I heard about that," she said.

  Geung hurried off to clean up the spotless morgue. Dtui sat on the spare chair in front of Siri's desk.

  "The other day…" she began.

  "It's all right. I understand completely."

  "I mean, I know you care just as much as anyone."

  "Don't worry."

  "Thanks. Doc, I've been putting a lot of sleepless nighttime thought into our girl in there."

  "Me too."

  "The feet?"

  "Paddy fields?"

  "Two great minds. It's the only thing that makes any sense, although it doesn't make sense at all. She had to have been shrouded from head to calf to work in the fields. Most farm women wrap themselves up when they can to prevent sun damage, but it's hot out there. They put on one layer of clothing at the most. It's not enough to stop them from tanning. Most of them are already dark skinned from when they're little. By the looks of her, this girl hadn't ever seen the sun. Do you think she might have had an allergy to sunlight?"

  "Without sun she'd have to supplement the lack of vitamin D somehow. Her skin's very pale, but there's no evidence of an allergy in her pigmentation. I can read up on it, see if I've missed a condition. Failing that, it appears she just wanted to stay out of the sun. The only part she wouldn't have been able to cover was her feet. I suppose rubber boots might have worked."

  "I'd bet she tried that for a while until she realized how many diseases you can pick up in sweaty boots in this climate. I tried it myself for a while when I was little and ended up with every skin disease you can imagine."

  "It is odd, though. If it isn't an allergy, there has to be some other reason we haven't thought of. I'll work on it. Have you heard from Phosy?"

  "I got a message from him last night. Said he'd give you a ring later this morning. Didn't sound like he'd found much out."

  "All right, let me just get this autopsy report finished for Director Suk."

  "Are you sure you're all right?"

  "Yes, why?"

  "You really do look like you've seen a ghost."

  Siri smiled, but he was starting to believe that what he'd seen wasn't merely a ghost. It was an omen.

  Phosy rang at ten thirty. The clerk from the administration building trotted downstairs, across the forecourt, and into the morgue to let Dr Siri know he had a phone call. By the time Siri had walked briskly back to the clerk's office (his trotting days were behind him) the connection had been severed. It was half a cup of tea later before Phosy managed to get through again. Siri was beside the phone.

  "Siri speaking. Any luck?"

  "I went to the crime scene and looked around," Phosy told him. "The only thing I found there was a circle of candles: the red ones with short wicks you get at temples."

  "How large was the circle?"

  "Diameter of about four metres."

  "That's interesting."

  "We've shown the photo all over the district. You'd think someone would recall a pretty girl like that. But no joy."

  "Phosy, have you been to the farms?"

  "Some, but mostly around town. Why?"

  Siri explained their shrouded-rice-worker theory. Phosy seemed sceptical.

  "It would have been unbearable," he said. "How could anyone work the fields wrapped up…and why?"

  "If it did really happen," Siri said, "there'd have to be a good reason for it. You might want to ask if anyone's seen a girl like that working the fields."

  "All right. Anything from the stomach contents?"

  "I'm just about to take them over to teacher Oum at the lycee. She was away at a seminar all weekend. It's the
first chance I've had. I hear they've released the chemicals from customs."

  "The ones the Soviets donated?"

  "The Vladivostok Schools Cooperative."

  "You mean they've been at the docks for a year?"

  "It's an improvement. My new French forensic pathology textbooks have been stuck there since early '76. By the time they're cleared you'll be able to use them on me."

  Siri put the double plastic bag of stomach contents into a cloth shoulder bag and set off on his motorcycle. Teacher Oum's chemistry class was the closest thing Siri could get to a lab. In his breast pocket he had his Chiang Mai University toxico-logical colour key pamphlet. It contained a rather limited range of tests that, with a bit of luck, might give clues as to any poison or drug remaining in the system. More often than not, they didn't work. He wasn't feeling particularly lucky today. In fact, the more he considered the spectres of that morning, the more he felt as if his luck was about to run out. He wanted to go for a ride in the countryside to improve his mood, but the contents of the bag needed to be refrigerated as soon as possible. He turned right in front of the old French governor general's mansion that held court at the start of Ian Xang Avenue. Its grounds had been ignored since the arrival of the Pathet Lao, and all the exotic plants and expensive flowers and shrubs had gone to seed. It was a petty revenge for sixty years of colonialism. Even towards lunchtime there was scant traffic on the main avenue. With its own Lao Arc de Triomphe, Ian Xang had delusions of being the Champs-Elysees. At its widest it could accommodate ten and a half cars or fifty-seven bicycles but today it welcomed only Dr Siri and a small pack of dogs, all dusty.

  He passed two government buildings, Finance and Foreign Affairs, which, until a week ago, had been mere departments. Overnight they had become ministries. He remembered a meeting in the caves of Vieng Xai where the old cadres had voted unanimously that when they came to power, they wouldn't encumber their work with the linguistic ornaments of the decadent West. They didn't need ministers or ministries because that would distance them from the common people. No, for them titles like 'Comrade Bounlert in charge of agriculture' would be sufficient. But the temptation to be Somebody had obviously proven too great and the Department of Information had announced that all departments, including itself, would thereafter be called ministries, 'merely to avoid confusion among foreign diplomats'.

  At last he rode beneath the arch of the old French lycee. So as not to disturb classes, or, as teacher Oum would have it, wake up the pupils, he switched off his motor and scooted along the driveway to the building that housed the chemistry department. He'd been in graveyards less silent. Education, it appeared, had given way to copying large tracts of text from a blackboard. It saved the vocal cords of the teachers and the brain matter of the children.

  He waited in Oum's tiny office until the bell sounded for lunch. Siri had been forced to repeat his high school education in Paris and the sounding of a bell there had been the signal for euphoric screams of freedom and laughter and gaiety. Here at the lycee it was more of an alarm clock that sent sleepy children to their meal. Teacher Oum burst from her classroom like a claustrophobic chick from an egg. She was thirtyish and roundish with an infectious smile. She ran into her office in a panic.

  "Oh, Siri," she said. "I need a cigarette."

  "You don't smoke."

  "I started last Wednesday. I'm addicted already."

  "But why?"

  "I needed something after three hours of the new curriculum. I couldn't scream or run head first into a wall. Cigarettes were the next best thing. Like my new decorations?"

  Siri looked around the walls at the neat shelves that held brand-new bottles of chemicals all labelled with little black skulls and crossbones and Russian lettering. Oum struck a match and sucked at the flame through a Red A cigarette.

  "Are you sure you should be lighting fires with all this around you?" Siri asked, not in jest.

  She coughed her response. "With a bit of luck, the whole" — cough — "the whole place will go up." Cough. "What can I do for you?"

  Siri went to the small refrigerator.

  "I've brought you stomach contents," he said, removing the bag.

  "How sweet. Gary used to bring me chocolates."

  Gary was the Australian who had deflowered young Oum during her study period in Sydney. Apart from chocolates, he'd left another gift. She'd named the child Nali. He was seven now, and his red hair made him hard to disguise.

  "How's Nali?" Siri asked.

  "His Aussie genes are starting to show through. He punched a four-year-old girl last week."

  "Perhaps it's rebellion against the smoking."

  "He'll have to get used to it. I'm planning to have a lot more vices before he grows up."

  "Good for you."

  Oum was spooning stomach contents into six Petri dishes. "What are we looking for?"

  "I'm guessing traces of a sedative, a very strong one." He went back to the fridge and took out another small vial. "I brought this too. I wasn't sure we'd be able to do anything with it. I didn't see anything in the book."

  "What are you hoping to find?" she asked.

  "Traces of semen."

  "Ah, so this was a rape?"

  "I just need to know whether he…"

  "I get it. It's too bad we're so limited in what we can do here. You need a real lab, Dr Siri."

  "I'll tell the president."

  "Let him know you've got a ready-made assistant to work in it too. I tell you what. This is a long shot, Siri, but there may be a way. I read about it when I was in Sydney. You need an ultraviolet light. It shows up the phosphates."

  "And you just happen to have an ultraviolet lamp lying around?"

  "I hope that wasn't sarcasm, Doctor, because yes, we do. It's over in the gym. They used it at the school discotheque in the good old days. I have no idea whether it'll work but it's worth a try."

  "Indeed it is."

  "I'll get on to it after school this evening. Let's look at these fellows first."

  While they worked their way down the list from the handbook, Siri decided to describe the case. Given Dtui's reaction, he was reluctant to spoil Oum's day, but he knew in the small world they shared, she'd hear about the strangling sooner or later. He left the part about the pestle to the very end. Oum dropped the pipette into a glass bowl with a crash and pushed herself back on the chair.

  "I'm sorry," he told her. "There was no delicate way — "

  "No, Siri. This story. I've heard the selfsame thing."

  "What do you mean?"

  "The beautiful girl strangled, tied to a tree…the pestle."

  "How could you have heard it so soon? It only happened on Friday."

  "No, Siri. It happened a long time ago."

  "Where did you get it from?"

  "Here, at the school. It's one of those legends the kids pass around to scare the daylights out of each other. I put a girl in detention when I heard her telling it. I thought it was sick for children to be coming up with stories like that."

  "Well, believe me, Oum, this wasn't a story. When did you hear it?"

  "A year ago? Maybe two."

  The anger rose in Siri's throat. "He's done this before, the bastard. Do you remember the student?"

  "Kumdee Vilavong. She's also big on dirty jokes and scandal. I put her in detention all the time. I'm quite fond of her."

  Siri stood. "Can we go and talk to her?"

  "What? Now?"

  "Yes, right now."

  4

  HINDIPENDENCE

  The lunchtime rush at the Happy Dine Indian restaurant was over and the proprietor was sitting with his waitress in the open frontage looking at the street. At eleven, they'd sprinkled the pavement out front with a watering can. For about thirty minutes it kept the dust from flying into the tin lunch trays. They'd repeated the dousing at twelve and one. It was 1:15 and no evidence of their efforts remained. The hot pavement had devoured the water as soon as it made contact. That might explain, i
n some small way, why the lunchtime rush had numbered five people, one of whom had brought his own drink. Everybody agreed the Happy Dine had gone downhill since the old regime.

  A motorcycle went past, braked, and turned back. It kicked up a dust storm. The waitress pulled up her T-shirt to cover her nose and exposed her belly. The proprietor looked down forlornly at his once white shirt. Dr Siri emerged from the cloud and cast a faint shadow across both of them. He quickly explained that he'd already eaten lunch, thus curtailing their excitement before it got out of hand.

  "I'm here to see your chef," he said.

  "We have nobody here of that name," said the proprietor. He was one of the southern Indians who had weathered the takeover of '75. His accent was so thick, it would have stuck to the wall if you'd thrown it. Siri wasn't absolutely sure it was Lao he was hearing.

  "The father of the crazy man who walks around the streets?" Siri tried again.

  "My chef is not available for other positions. He is bonded," said the proprietor.

  Siri stared at him.

  "He's out the back, uncle," said the waitress. The young man glared at her, but she ignored him.

  Out the back actually meant 'out the back'.

  The kitchen was at the rear of the restaurant in the yard roofed over by a large green tarpaulin with grease stains. Attached to a cross beam were two remarkable fans. Someone had come up with the bright idea of removing the covers and attaching long streamers to the blades. The intention had obviously been to keep insects away from the food and keep the cook cool at the same time. But the weight of the streamers had slowed the rotors to such a pace that the device merely stirred the hot air and the flies together like ingredients in a large stew. A fat man in a navy blue undershirt and long black trousers was on the far side of the small yard washing dishes in a bucket.

  "Excuse me," Siri said.

  The man looked over his shoulder with a shocked expression. His was a bulbous chocolaty face with a nose that looked like it might pop. He dropped the dishes into the unsoapy water and hurried over to Siri, wiping his hands on his belly. He crouched as he walked in order to keep his head below the visitor's. He smiled broadly and rocked his head and performed a very wobbly version of the Lao, hands-together nop. Siri was afraid the man might drop to his knees.